


and the last age should show your heart

by fallingintodivinity



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bard!Geralt, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Witcher!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/pseuds/fallingintodivinity
Summary: Geralt’s first thought is that whoever had come up with all those tales about witchers had done a really bad job of it. The man standing in front of Geralt, with his pretty face and sweet, boyish smile, is about as far as humanly possible from the picture Geralt’d had in his mind of a typical witcher.“I’m Jaskier,” the witcher says, then stares hopefully at Geralt.“Geralt.”Jaskier beams. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Geralt.” The witcher peers at him inquisitively. “You’re not very talkative, for a bard.”Geralt grunts. “You’re pretty damned talkative, for a witcher.”[or: a canon AU in which Jaskier is a witcher and Geralt is a bard.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 106
Kudos: 1047
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> This is for Prim, who requested the following delightful prompt: “Role reversal AU in which Jaskier’s the witcher and Geralt’s the bard.”
> 
> Based on the TV series only as I haven't read the books or played the games.
> 
> Title from ‘To His Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell.

Geralt first meets the witcher two days after his eighteenth birthday.

He’s been in Posada for three days now, playing his lute every evening in the tiny village’s only tavern. It seems not many bards pass through this village: he’s the first one here this month, according to the surly innkeeper, and Geralt can definitely see why.

The reception to his songs from the tavern’s patrons has been at best indifferent and at worst hostile, and being pelted with rotting vegetables on his eighteenth birthday had been – while memorable – an experience Geralt neither enjoyed, nor is particularly eager to repeat.

Geralt isn’t even all that sure why he stopped in Posada this long. He’d just been passing through, on the way to find a larger town where his performances would hopefully earn a little more coin, but he’d found the tiny village and its crotchety residents rather restful.

It’s a refreshing change to not have people constantly approaching him and requesting he play a particular jig, or, worse still, having to be _nice_ to people so that they’ll allow the tall, scary-looking bard to ply his trade in their establishment for an evening.

In hindsight, his fondness for solitude is probably not terribly compatible with success in his chosen profession as a bard.

***

Geralt is seated in a dark corner of the tavern, picking at his not-terribly-appetizing lunch and ruminating on his life choices when the door to the tavern swings open, and a murmur runs through the sparse crowd in the tavern. He looks up as the crowd falls silent, to see a tall, slender young man strolling over to the bar. 

Once the young man has seated himself at the bar with a tankard of ale, the noise in the tavern starts up again. There is, however, now a distinctly different – _hostile_ – edge to the chatter. Nobody speaks directly to the young man, or is even willing to sit within an arm’s length of him, but a number of patrons shoot unfriendly glances at the man, murmuring under their breath about how he’s closer to being an animal than human, about how he’s not welcome in their tavern.

Curious, Geralt eyes the young man, who seems completely unfazed by the rude comments being directed his way. His dark brown hair is neatly trimmed, the ends curling over the collar of his black leather jacket. There’s a silver medallion hanging around his neck, half hidden inside his shirt so the design on it isn’t visible. From the double swords that the young man had carefully set down on the bar next to him and his golden eyes, clearly visible as he glances round the room, it seems that this young man is a witcher.

Interesting.

As Geralt mentally revises his estimate of the man’s age – likely not that young after all, no matter that he looks twenty at most; the tales say that witchers live very long lives – the man in question, as if sensing he’s being watched, turns his head and unerringly catches Geralt’s gaze.

The witcher tips his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at Geralt, then gets to his feet, taking his swords and his ale with him.

He comes over to Geralt’s table, Geralt watching him warily the entire time.

“Hi!” the witcher says cheerily. “I noticed that you’re the only one in this entire place who hasn’t said anything rude to me. Or, you know, said anything rude about me behind my back. Ooh, nice lute!” He peers at Geralt’s lute with interest, then slides into the seat opposite Geralt, puts his swords down and makes himself at home.

Geralt stares blankly at him. He’d heard that witchers tended to be loners, and they certainly weren’t ever said to be _friendly_.

“I’m Jaskier,” the witcher says, then stares hopefully at Geralt.

With the witcher right in front of him, Geralt’s first thought is that whoever had come up with all those tales about witchers had done a really bad job of it. Witchers were said to be mutants, ugly and terrifying, more beast than human...but the man in front of Geralt, with his pretty face and sweet, boyish smile, is about as far as humanly possible from the picture Geralt’d had in his mind of a typical witcher.

In fact, if not for the gold eyes, Geralt would have assumed that the man – Jaskier – was a mercenary-for-hire, what with the leather getup and the swords, and – oh, Jaskier’s been nattering away while Geralt was otherwise occupied.

He blinks slowly at Jaskier, who’s looking at him expectantly.

“Hm,” he says noncommittally, hoping that he doesn’t look like he has no clue what Jaskier just said.

Jaskier laughs. “Okay, maybe we should begin with a simpler question, then. What’s your name, bard?”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier beams. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Geralt.” The witcher peers at him inquisitively. “You’re not very talkative, for a bard.”

Geralt grunts. “You’re pretty damned talkative, for a witcher.”

Jaskier’s smile dims slightly, and Geralt feels an unfamiliar pang of guilt which he squashes ruthlessly.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.” He eyes Geralt curiously. “Met a lot of witchers, have you?”

“Just the one,” Geralt says, and sips his ale.

***

Jaskier is more than halfway through his ale and in the middle of expounding on the difficulties of killing wraiths when one of the tavern’s patrons finally works up the courage to approach him and offer him a contract. Apparently some kind of creature has been stealing the villagers’ grain, and Jaskier is tasked with dealing with it.

The witcher gets to his feet and bids farewell to Geralt, proclaiming that he has to go do the job now or he won’t be able to afford lunch. That said, he waves cheerfully at Geralt and leaves the tavern.

Geralt looks down at the remains of his lunch thoughtfully. He wavers for a moment, but curiosity gets the better of him: Jaskier is almost as tall as Geralt is, but so slender, and Geralt can’t quite fathom how a man who looks so delicate can kill the kinds of monsters witchers are said to kill. He gets up, pays for his lunch, then picks up his lute and goes to get his horse, Roach, from the stables.

He catches up to Jaskier after the witcher’s already reached his destination. There’s a white horse waiting patiently by the side of the path, munching lazily on a small patch of dry grass. One of the two swords Geralt had noticed Jaskier carrying earlier is stowed on the side of the horse’s saddle.

Jaskier is nowhere to be seen. Geralt leaves Roach next to the white horse, his pack tied to her saddle, then creeps as quietly as he can into the tall brush by the side of the path, trying to see if he can spot Jaskier anywhere nearby.

It’s all silence for the first few minutes, an almost unnatural stillness where the air feels heavy and oppressive and all Geralt can see is miles and miles of dry plant life, reaching their spindly yellow-green branches toward the sky. Then suddenly, he’s thrown off-balance as someone – or some _thing_ – tackles him hard, sending him sprawling to the ground with his attacker a dead weight on top of him.

“Leave me be!” it shrieks. Then, just as abruptly as it appeared, the weight on top of him disappears as someone else tackles his attacker, sending both of them rolling away from Geralt.

Slightly dazed, Geralt sits up just as Jaskier’s head pops up from a few feet away. Apparently, the witcher was the one who’d saved Geralt from whatever had attacked him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, looking puzzled.

Before Geralt can say anything, Jaskier disappears back into the tangle of plants he’s standing in with a yelp. Apparently whatever had attacked Geralt is now focusing its attention on Jaskier. Geralt gets to his feet, but before he can join the fray, there’s a slight movement behind him. He turns, but not quickly enough; someone hits him on the head, hard, and he blacks out.

***

When Geralt regains consciousness, he discovers that he can’t move his arms.

Upon further inspection, he finds that he’s in some kind of a cave, and he’s been tied up in a sitting position, back to back with someone else who is, presumably, in the same mess. He tugs experimentally at his bonds, finding almost no give whatsoever.

“Geralt?” It’s Jaskier’s voice behind him, Jaskier that he’s been tied up with. “Are you alright?”

Geralt nods, then realizes that Jaskier can’t see him. “Yes,” he rasps. “Where are we?”

Before Jaskier can answer, an elven woman storms into the cave and snarls something in Elder at Jaskier. Geralt knows only a few words of the Elder speech and can’t quite catch what she says, but from her tone, he gets the gist of it, and it’s not polite.

Jaskier snaps back at the woman in Elder, speaking too fast for Geralt to follow, but whatever he says seems to make the elf lose her temper. She aims a vicious kick at Jaskier, and Geralt winces at Jaskier’s pained grunt. Several more swift kicks follow, and behind him, Geralt can feel Jaskier furiously struggling to free himself from the ropes binding them both even as the elven woman rains blows on him.

After one particularly meaty thump and Jaskier’s subsequent gasp of pain, Geralt can no longer bear it. “Stop it!” he shouts, kicking out as best he can with his bound legs. His left foot connects with the elven woman’s ankle, and she snarls and turns toward him.

“Ah, _fuck,_ ” he mutters through gritted teeth as the woman snatches up his lute. When she hits Geralt ferociously with his own lute – the only thing of real value that he owns – the pained sound that escapes him is nine-tenths from the agony of seeing his lute splinter into pieces from the blow, and only one-tenth from actual physical pain.

“Leave him alone!” Jaskier roars. The witcher’s head bumps against Geralt’s as Jaskier cranes his head back to look at the elf. “He has nothing to do with this. Let him go.”

“And why should I listen to you,” the elf hisses, carelessly tossing the remains of Geralt’s lute aside and stalking over to lean close to Jaskier, “ _human?_ ”

The instant the woman’s close enough, Jaskier snarls and Geralt feels the witcher lunge forward, dragging Geralt with him. Jaskier’s head connects with the elf’s with an audible crack, and she falls back onto the floor, looking dazed. Geralt has to choke back a surprised snort; Jaskier may look sweet and guileless at first glance, but oh, he’s _fierce_.

“There’s only one human here,” Jaskier says. “And you’d better _let him go_.”

“Toruviel, what’s going on here?” A male elf strides into the cave, closely followed by a – Geralt squints in the gloom of the cave – yes, it’s a sylvan. So _that’s_ who attacked him earlier.

“Who’re you?” Geralt demands of the new arrivals.

“I’m Torque,” the sylvan says. “And he’s Filavandrel. King of the elves.” Filavandrel, however, isn’t even looking at Geralt.

“Jaskier?” the elf says, looking startled.

“Filavandrel?” says Jaskier. He sounds as confused as Filavandrel looks. “What in the name of all the gods are you doing here? I thought you and your kin had left Dol Blathanna – ”

“Left?” Toruviel interrupts venomously. “We were _forced out_.”

“What?” Jaskier says to her blankly. “No, you _chose_ to – ” He glances over at Filavandrel, and whatever expression he sees on the elven king’s face makes him abruptly fall silent.

Geralt turns to Torque. “You were…stealing for them,” he says slowly.

“I felt for them,” the sylvan says. “They were forced out of their home. Starving.”

“You never told me,” Jaskier says sorrowfully to Filavandrel.

“What would have been the point?” the elven king says, weary. “There was nothing you could have done.”

Jaskier still looks upset, but he dips his head, conceding the point. “At least let the bard go,” he says pleadingly. “He has nothing to do with this.”

Filavandrel shakes his head. “If we do, then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing. They’ll attack, and many will die.”

“We’re dying anyway,” Toruviel says, turning to him. “Starving, bit by bit, every day.” She grips his arm. “I’d be proud to die fighting by your side.”

Jaskier looks from Toruviel to Filavandrel. “You could…leave,” he says slowly. “Go somewhere else. Rebuild.”

“And give in to the humans?” Filavandrel says bitterly.

Toruviel turns to Filavandrel. “My king,” she says, fierce. “There are others. A new generation. We can take back what’s ours.”

“Fila, please,” Jaskier interrupts. “You don’t have to do this.”

Filavandrel glares at the witcher. “Stop calling me that,” he grumbles.

“You’re a good man,” Jaskier continues, undeterred. “If you decide to bring your people elsewhere and rebuild, I know they’ll follow you.” He smiles at the elf. “And if you’re worried about Geralt, he won’t tell anyone in Posada about you. I spent an entire hour with him and he barely said three words to me.”

Filavandrel huffs, looking unwillingly amused. “That’s because _you_ probably spent the entire hour talking, witcher.” He grows serious again, looking at Geralt assessingly.

“If I free the bard,” he says to Jaskier, “will you consider my debt to you repaid?”

“You’re my friend,” Jaskier says immediately. “I never once thought you owed me a debt.”

Filavandrel sighs, then bows his head.

“A _certain_ witcher once told me,” he says, “when I asked why he never retaliated against the constant abuse he received from humans, that it is the choices we make which define us. That it is possible to be more than what the world expects or fears you to be.”

Jaskier smiles slightly. “The words of a wise man?” he says teasingly.

“Yes,” says Filavandrel. “And the words of a friend.”

***

“She _is_ rather lovely, isn’t she,” Jaskier says. He’s walking next to Geralt, both of them leading their horses on the path out of Posada as the noonday sun beats down on them bright and hot.

“Yes,” Geralt says a little dazedly, still staring disbelievingly at Filavandrel’s lute, which is tucked under his arm. “Filavandrel gave her to you – are you sure you don’t want her?”

“I’m not a bard,” Jaskier says. “What would I do with a lute?” He looks thoughtful. “I could sell her if you don’t want her, I suppose.”

Geralt looks at him aghast, clutching the lute protectively to his chest. Jaskier laughs.

They’ll be parting ways once they’re out of Posada. Even after the ordeal of being knocked out, tied up, almost getting killed then abruptly getting released, Geralt can’t find it in himself to regret meeting Jaskier.

The man is a study in contradictions, and Geralt reluctantly admits to himself that he’s intrigued. Jaskier is unrelentingly confident and charming even in the face of the suspicion and sometimes outright hostility shown to witchers, and yet, when actually driven to anger, he fights like a wild thing. He’s protective of those he takes under his wing, which includes an elven king and apparently, a simple bard as well.

He’s very easy on the eyes too, which is something Geralt is trying really hard not to think about.

Jaskier glances at him. “What’s on your mind?” he asks.

Geralt clears his throat. “Why did Filavandrel say he owed you a debt?” he asks.

“I saved his life once,” Jaskier says, “a long time ago. From an assassin – he was from a very influential elven family, you know. The House of Feleaorn of the White Ships. And it was really entirely an accident that I was even there at the time. Right place at the right time, and all that.” He grins. “I think he’s still rather bitter about that, that he owes his life to someone. He’s always been a proud bastard.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “He sounds rather…” He ponders briefly, then decides to go with the more tactful option. “…Difficult.”

Jaskier throws his head back and laughs loud and long. “I like difficult men,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments you guys have left, they give me life and keep me writing! <3 I'm a little behind on replies, but I promise I'll reply to each and every comment!

Over the next two years, Geralt runs into Jaskier a number of times in the course of his travels.

Jaskier always greets him as if they’re old friends, which initially confuses Geralt. Geralt is well aware that he’s not the most approachable person on the Continent, so Jaskier appearing to be delighted to see him every time they run into each other is just...strange.

It turns out that Jaskier is actually good company, though. He’s clever and funny and full of tales about what he calls “witchering” – which mostly seems to involve him wading around in damp and filthy places to find and kill monsters – that are either hilarious or terrifying, and sometimes both. Geralt’s never had so much material to use in his songs before.

And the thing is, Geralt loves writing songs; lyrics and music have always come to him easily. Too easily, sometimes – his main problem with songwriting is that he has _too many ideas._ Jaskier’s stories have compounded that particular problem tenfold, but in a good way – with the constant bombardment of tales about Jaskier’s escapades, the songs are practically writing themselves. Even with his affinity for songwriting, inspiration has never flowed _this_ freely for Geralt before.

It’s the _performing_ part of his profession that Geralt’s not too fond of. He has, more than once, considered just sticking to songwriting, but the thought of someone _else_ singing a new song he’s just written makes him feel like he’s about to break out in a rash.

But even performing is less nerve-wracking when Jaskier’s sitting right there in the front of the crowd, a tankard of ale on the table in front of him, beaming at Geralt and merrily singing along to the songs that he’s heard before.

So if Geralt’s not precisely _unhappy_ to see Jaskier every time the witcher shows up somewhere Geralt happens to be performing, well. Jaskier’s never going to know.

***

The sixth time they meet is at a tavern in Redania, where Geralt is having lunch when Jaskier walks in the door, his black jacket spattered liberally with some kind of dark fluid that Geralt strongly suspects is some kind of monster blood. When Jaskier spies Geralt at a corner table, his eyes light up. He promptly invites himself over to Geralt’s table and waves the barmaid over so he can order some food.

As they eat, Jaskier chatters merrily on about the contracts he’s taken lately. Geralt ventures an enquiry about the stuff staining Jaskier’s jacket, which earns him an earful about how cockatrice blood does _not_ wash out and Jaskier is now going to have to replace this jacket, which is a shame because he really liked it and apparently went five contracts in a row without eating full meals so that he could afford it.

Geralt raises an eyebrow and remarks that no jacket is worth skipping multiple meals for, which provokes a second, deeply indignant spiel about Geralt’s fashion sense (or lack thereof), complete with Jaskier flailing his arms around vigorously to emphasize his point. While Jaskier is thus distracted, Geralt sneaks a little of his food onto the witcher’s plate, because what kind of demented witcher would willingly work on an empty stomach. What the fuck is wrong with Jaskier’s priorities.

Once he’s gotten that rant out of his system, Jaskier seems to calm down a little, to Geralt’s relief. He wolfs down most of his lunch, including the portion that Geralt snuck onto his plate, then sips his ale, leaning his chin on one palm, as he watches Geralt finish his own food.

“So do you have a muse?” Jaskier asks, apropos of nothing, as Geralt’s scraping up the last bits of chicken from his plate.

“Eh?” Geralt says indistinctly around a mouthful of chicken. He swallows his food. “No. Why?”

“Oh, huh,” Jaskier says. “I thought all bards had muses.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Whom they write epic ballads about. Or, y’know, something like that.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Met a lot of bards, have you?”

Jaskier grins. “Just one that matters,” he says, and winks.

***

Two months later, Geralt is playing at an inn in Temeria on a rainy evening when he hears the rumors. There are whispers that there’s a witcher somewhere on the outskirts of town, badly injured, maybe dead. Nobody can quite agree on the details, but every single version of the rumor has the witcher either dead, or very near death.

Geralt’s heart leaps into his throat, fingers faltering on his lute.

There’s no reason to believe that it’s Jaskier. But – it _could_ be. There aren’t that many witchers left out there. Geralt doesn’t realize that he’s stopped playing until the discontented murmurs of the crowd grow louder, and at least one irritated patron of the tavern yells at him to _do your job and keep playing, bard!_

Silently, Geralt packs his lute and quickly leaves the tavern without even collecting his payment for the evening, ignoring the loud and annoyed complaints of the occupants of the tavern as he shoves his way through the crowd.

It’s almost pitch-black outside, a steady drizzle pattering down and soaking through Geralt’s clothes, turning the ground beneath his feet to mud. When he reaches the edge of town, he makes a slow circle around the perimeter, straining to see in the gloom. He’s gone no more than ten steps around the perimeter before he almost trips over something – a dark shape on the ground.

“Dammit,” he mutters, dropping to his knees to get a closer look. To his dismay, the dark shape turns out to a body lying face-down in the mud.

Heart hammering in his chest, he gently turns the body over, and oh fuck – _fuck_.

It’s Jaskier.

Jaskier’s eyes are shut, his hair filthy and matted and his entire body stained with mud and blood. His clothes are torn in numerous places, and when Geralt presses a hand to one of the dark patches on Jaskier’s jacket, his hand comes away red and sticky in the faint moonlight.

Geralt hastily fumbles the collar of Jaskier’s jacket open, desperately pressing trembling fingers to Jaskier’s slender neck, searching for a heartbeat. He finally finds a pulse, thin and thready, beneath the pads of his fingers and almost collapses with relief.

He clumsily manhandles Jaskier’s limp body into a sitting position, then slings him over his shoulders and struggles to his feet. Jaskier is a couple of inches shorter than him, but he’s all lithe muscle and as such, weighs more than Geralt would’ve expected at first glance. The ground is muddy and slippery beneath Geralt’s boots, raindrops stinging his skin and dripping off his eyelashes, half-blinding him, but Geralt barely notices any of this as he lifts the unconscious witcher and staggers back to town.

The town healer opens her door after Geralt’s been pounding on it for what feels like a year but is, in all likelihood, only a few minutes. When the healer sees Jaskier, her eyes go wide, and she quickly gestures at Geralt to come inside, closing the door behind him.

Geralt lays Jaskier down on the narrow bed that the healer points him toward, then hovers behind her as she works, checking Jaskier’s pulse with efficient movements. When she lifts Jaskier’s eyelids to check his pupils, however, she freezes abruptly, then steps back, turning to glance at Geralt with huge, fearful eyes.

It’s only then that it dawns on Geralt that the healer hadn’t known that Jaskier was a witcher. She hadn’t realized until she’d seen the gold of his irises, eyes that no human would have.

And the way regular people fear witchers, think of them as heartless monsters, when, in Jaskier’s case at least, that couldn’t be further from the truth…it fills Geralt with helpless anger, to think that if he hadn’t been in exactly the right place at the right time, Jaskier might have been left to die. All because people fear him; needlessly so.

Geralt files that thought away to mull on more later, because he has more pressing concerns right now. Such as making sure Jaskier gets the help he desperately needs.

“Please,” he says to the healer. “Whatever the price for your services, I’ll pay it.”

She still looks uncertain, though, like she’s torn between doing as Geralt asks, and turning tail and running away.

“He’ll die without your help,” Geralt says. “ _Please,_ ” and perhaps it’s her natural instinct to help or perhaps it’s the naked desperation in his voice that convinces her, but she nods once, a quick, sharp jerk of her head, then turns back to Jaskier, pale and still as death on the bed. His breaths are quick and shallow.

After the healer has done all she can, and reassured Geralt that Jaskier will live – and for all that she could’ve charged Geralt any price she wanted and he would’ve paid it, she charges him a fair price and he’s grateful for it – Geralt’s got just enough coin left to get a single room at the inn and a hot meal.

He tucks a still-unconscious Jaskier into bed in the former, then goes downstairs to the tavern and demolishes the latter. After his supper, he returns to the room, where Jaskier’s still pale and unmoving, although at least his wounds have all been tended to, and he’s breathing easier now. Geralt sighs and collapses into the chair beside the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted.

He jerks to wakefulness an indeterminate time later. The room is still dark save for the single candle burning low on the table, so he can’t have been asleep for that long. Jaskier hasn’t moved at all from where Geralt left him earlier, although his chest is still rising and falling reassuringly.

Geralt wearily strips off his still-damp clothing, crawls into bed beside Jaskier and falls back asleep instantly.

***

The next time Geralt wakes, it’s morning, the room flooded with sunlight. The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Jaskier, groggy but awake, lying on his side and staring at him curiously.

Geralt immediately sits up and almost knocks Jaskier out the opposite side of the bed. He grabs the witcher’s arm to steady him.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks at him. “Like I just got trampled on by a dragon,” he says, then pokes cautiously at the bandages wrapped around his middle.

Geralt snorts. “You certainly _looked_ like you’d gotten trampled on by a dragon when I found you,” he says.

“If I’d known that _that_ was what it’d take to get you into bed,” Jaskier says slyly, “I’d have gone out to look for the nearest dragon _years_ ago.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier shifts a little, then grimaces and presses a hand to the swath of bandages over his stomach.

“Easy, tiger,” Geralt says, very dry.

Jaskier laughs, then winces. “Ow,” he says.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier sighs. “Striga,” he says.

“Dead?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Cured,” he says. “For now, at least. She’s in the care of a friend of mine now. A sorceress. Hopefully Triss’ll be able to make the cure stick.”

Feeling daring, Geralt reaches out to gently trace the edges of the bandages around Jaskier’s stomach with his thumb. Just visible under the center of the bandages is a long, pale scar from an old wound, the jagged raised edge of it bumpy under the pad of Geralt’s thumb. “She could’ve killed you,” he says.

“Everything I fight could kill me,” Jaskier says. His gaze flicks down to Geralt’s hand on his stomach, lingers. “She deserved a chance to live.”

“Even if she almost killed you?” Geralt asks.

“Especially because she almost killed me,” Jaskier says. “She was never given a choice. Never knew anything else.” He exhales, an almost inaudible sigh. “Maybe now, she’ll get a chance to.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. He withdraws his hand.

“You would have done the same,” Jaskier says, then smiles at Geralt.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “If I encountered a striga,” he says dryly, “I would most likely have gotten killed.”

“I won’t let that happen to you,” Jaskier says immediately.

Geralt huffs a soft laugh. “The sentiment is appreciated,” he says. “But I’m sure that you have better things to do with your time than to spend it protecting one bard. You have your Path, do you not?”

“Yes,” says Jaskier. He glances down again, then looks back up to meet Geralt’s eyes. “But – I wish…”

“What is it?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, and looks away.

Geralt is silent for a moment, studying Jaskier while the witcher is seemingly lost in thought. His gaze lingers on Jaskier’s medallion, engraved with the head of a wolf, proud and strong, resting right over his heart.

For all that Jaskier likes to pretend to be flighty, he’s a man with a good heart – a kind heart. One who’s willing to die in the service of doing what he believes is right. Smart and fierce and brave, like the beautiful animal on his medallion.

Jaskier looks back at Geralt, and he seems almost nervous, throat working. Geralt moves to trace the line of another long scar, this one just beneath Jaskier’s collarbone.

“Tell me how you got this one,” he says.

***

After the events in Temeria, Geralt seems to keep running into Jaskier all over the damn place. The witcher is much the same as he’s always been, greeting Geralt with a cheerful smile and bounding over to join him at whatever table Geralt is sitting at.

It’s just that now, Geralt also notices when Jaskier’s acquired a new scar, or when his smiles are more a façade than genuine cheer. He notices when Jaskier’s shoulders sag a little under the unrelenting abuse that gets heaped on him by fearful villagers, even as they beg him to save them from whatever monster’s been stealing their crops or killing their children.

Geralt grows to realize that for all the scars marking Jaskier’s skin, each one a badge of honor in his lonely battle to keep humanity safe, the witcher carries his true hurts on the inside, where nobody can reach them but him.

Geralt’s not sure whether this new awareness is due to him being more attuned to Jaskier’s moods, or because Jaskier’s a little more willing to let his masks slip around Geralt.

More importantly, he has no idea what to _do_ about it.

“I’m not good with people,” he says gloomily. “And I’m worse at…at comforting them, or, well. I don’t think I’m supposed to be doing any comforting in this case, anyway. I know if it were me, I wouldn’t want _pity_. But…I also wouldn’t want to feel completely alone if I were just trying to do the right thing and help people, you know?”

His companion remains silent.

Geralt sighs, poking at the campfire he’s been halfheartedly attempting to light. “And I don’t see what I can do about it.” He sighs. “I just write songs, it’s not like I can force people to treat witchers better, or change their…opinion…”

He sits up straight on the log he’s perched on, abandoning the campfire entirely.

“Hmm,” he says thoughtfully.

In reply, Roach nickers and nudges him gently.


	3. Chapter 3

One day about eight months later, Geralt realizes that he’s amassed a rather large stock of healing salves and bandages, which he buys a few of whenever he passes a market.

He’s also perfected the art of not thinking too hard about his motivations for his recent actions, which is probably not the best strategy for a man whose profession depends on him being able to spin stories and songs from his experiences.

Look, it’s not his fault that he keeps running into Jaskier. It’s also not his fault that Jaskier’s profession means that he gets hurt with alarming regularity, even if most of his injuries aren’t very serious.

One night, after Geralt’s spent the evening playing his lute in the tavern of a small town in the north, he’s waving the innkeeper over to order an ale for his parched throat when a young and pretty lady saunters over and smiles at him. It turns out that she’s the apprentice of the town healer, and is both very attractive and very interested in Geralt.

Geralt leaves the tavern with her after his ale, but somehow, instead of bedding her, he ends up spending the entire night learning how to properly bandage a variety of wounds. Sometimes he embarrasses even himself.

If Roach could talk, she would never let him hear the end of this, Geralt thinks sadly.

***

Two weeks later, Geralt runs into Jaskier yet again. Or rather, Jaskier finds him.

Geralt’s sitting outdoors in a quiet corner, perched on a low crumbling wall and devouring a sandwich he’d bought for dinner from the tavern two streets down, when the witcher appears seemingly out of thin air and makes himself comfortable on the wall beside Geralt.

“So,” Jaskier says brightly. “Did you know that people have been really nice to me recently? No death threats, no complaining about how witchers are disgusting monsters – not even behind my back! – and one minor noble even offered me lodging _for free_ after I’d killed a basilisk for him. Nobles _never_ give things away for free.”

“That’s, er. Nice,” Geralt says. He takes another bite of his sandwich.

“Mm,” Jaskier says. “It is, rather. And I hear that there’s a certain song making its way across the Continent. Very popular in certain areas. It’s about witchers, and how lovely they are. Upstanding citizens who are friends of humanity, and all that kind of thing. You wouldn’t happen to know of it, would you?”

Geralt mumbles something unintelligible into his bread and cheese.

“It’s very catchy, actually,” Jaskier continues cheerfully. “Even had a verse about a brave witcher, nobly risking his life to save a striga rather than kill her.” He starts to hum.

“Please stop,” Geralt sighs. “It took me two months to stop myself from humming the damn tune when I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh, you _have_ heard of it, then!” Jaskier says, his eyes big and wide and innocent. Geralt glares at him.

The witcher throws his head back and laughs merrily. “But – seriously,” he says when he stops laughing, soft and sincere. “Thank you.”

“Hmph,” Geralt grumbles. “If you really wanted to thank me, you could stop getting hurt when you hunt. Do you know how much healing salves cost?”

“The healing salves may be expensive,” Jaskier says, “but the experience of getting nursed back to health by a surly yet terribly attractive bard? That’s _priceless._ ” He winks at Geralt.

Geralt groans. “Go away and let me eat my sandwich in peace.”

“As you wish,” Jaskier says cheerfully, getting to his feet. Geralt gives him an odd look.

“Where’re you going?” he asks.

“Letting you eat your sandwich in peace, like you asked,” Jaskier says. “And I have a contract.”

“Oh?”

Jaskier nods. “Kikimora, just outside town.”

Geralt shoves the last of his sandwich into his mouth and gets to his feet. “I suppose I should come,” he says. “I’m the one with the healing salves, after all.”

***

Jaskier is oddly squirrely about Geralt following him on the kikimora hunt, even though he usually goes out of his way to beg Geralt to keep him company. It’s the first time Geralt’s ever followed Jaskier out to hunt something – usually they just travel together, or meet up after Jaskier’s completed a contract – but Geralt can take care of himself, and he most definitely plans to stay _way_ out of the kikimora’s range.

It’s so clear the entire time they’re making their way out to the swamp that Jaskier’s uncomfortable with Geralt’s presence that by the time they reach the swamp, Geralt is trying to decide how to phrase the offer to leave since Jaskier doesn’t seem to want him there. And Geralt is not hurt by that discovery, he really isn’t.

He’s just about to open his mouth when Jaskier seems to come to a decision. The witcher squares his shoulders, takes some bottles out of his bags then asks Geralt to wait with the horses, where it should be safe. He swigs the potions then quickly turns around and marches over to the muddy water where the kikimora is supposedly lurking.

The kikimora is one of the most terrifying things Geralt has ever seen. It’s hideous, and _huge_ , and, thankfully, no match for Jaskier.

After the dead kikimora’s body splashes back into the murky water it came from, Jaskier turns, covered in slime and guts, swords still clutched tightly in each hand. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat, his heart thumping faster, and it’s not because of the smell of blood and dirt.

Jaskier’s eyes are completely black – even the whites of his eyes – and his face, already pale normally, is now alabaster-white, with black veins spiderwebbing across it. He looks – strange, and otherworldly, even as it’s still recognizably him. Dimly, Geralt realizes that he’s gaping as Jaskier strides through the swamp, back toward Geralt and their horses.

When he’s finally right in front of Geralt, Jaskier’s still gripping his swords tightly, the leather of his gloves stretched so taut over his knuckles that Geralt can almost hear the creaking of the leather as Jaskier flexes his fingers restlessly around the hilts of his swords.

The two of them have been travelling together for years now, and Geralt’s used to having at least a general sense of how Jaskier’s feeling. When he’s not actively engaged in a hunt, the witcher is rarely silent and never still, constantly broadcasting what’s on his mind in a million little ways.

But now, even apart from the completely-black eyes, Jaskier’s expression is utterly blank. His head is bowed, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and it leaves Geralt feeling strangely unsettled.

“Jaskier – ” Geralt says, and Jaskier flinches, hard. The words _are you alright_ die in Geralt’s throat as he realizes, abruptly, that Jaskier’s – _afraid_.

The sheer ridiculousness of it strikes him all at once: this proud, fearless man, who faces down monsters normal people can’t even imagine on a daily basis, who stares down all manner of threats and verbal abuse with a smile…and he’s afraid of – what? That the way he looks right now might scare Geralt? That Geralt will walk away from him?

Geralt takes a step forward, and Jaskier’s shoulders stiffen even more. He quickly raises his head to look at Geralt.

Even though it’s difficult to make out Jaskier’s expression in the inky blackness of those otherworldly eyes, the witcher’s entire posture is one of tense resignation, as if he’s bracing for Geralt to strike him – as if that's the only reaction he knows to expect.

Geralt has a variety of different feelings about this, but mainly he just can’t fucking _bear_ it anymore, so he does the only thing that comes to mind right then.

He takes one more step forward, bringing one hand up to rest on Jaskier’s chest. As Jaskier starts to frown in puzzlement, Geralt gives him a good shove backward, until the witcher stumbles back against a sturdy swamp oak. Geralt crowds in close, takes Jaskier’s dirt-streaked face in both hands and kisses him savagely.

Jaskier’s lips part in a silent gasp. There’s a loud splash as the witcher presumably loses his grip on one of his swords – Geralt isn’t really paying attention – then Jaskier kisses Geralt back just as fiercely, one hand gripping Geralt’s shoulder so hard that he’s probably going to have bruises come morning. Geralt can’t bring himself to care.

Jaskier releases Geralt only to gently cup Geralt’s face with one palm, staring at him with those fathomless eyes. He’s still breathing hard – well, hard for a witcher, at least – and he looks so hopeful that it breaks Geralt’s heart a little. Not that Geralt would ever admit that last bit out loud.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Are you sure about this?”

Geralt drops his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder, because if he looks directly at Jaskier’s expression for much longer, he’s probably going to say something truly, catastrophically embarrassing and then Jaskier will never let him forget it for as long as they both live.

“You could sprout wings and a tail for all I care,” he mutters into Jaskier’s neck. “Doesn’t matter. ‘s still _you._ ”

Fuck. That wasn’t the _worst_ thing he could have said, but still pretty embarrassing. When he finally summons the courage to raise his head again, Jaskier looks almost shocked, his dark eyes wide. A slow, beatific smile spreads over his face.

“Mm, now there’s a thought,” he muses contemplatively. He ducks his head to press a lingering kiss to Geralt’s neck. “A tail! Imagine all the things I could do to you with an extra appendage!”

“Nngh,” Geralt squirms as Jaskier’s hand creeps between his legs. The witcher’s clever fingers dance teasingly over his clothed cock, which twitches eagerly against Jaskier’s palm. “You’re doing just fine with the appendages you have.”

“Just fine?” Jaskier sounds pained. “I’d hoped to impress you a little more than _that._ ”

Geralt grunts in surprise as Jaskier bends slightly, wraps one arm around Geralt’s hips and lifts him up as if he weighs no more than a maiden – and okay, yes, Geralt is gaining a newfound appreciation for witcher strength right about now. He wraps his thighs around Jaskier’s waist, gripping Jaskier’s shoulder tightly for balance as the witcher sheathes the sword he’s still holding, then bends over to retrieve his other sword from where he’d dropped it in the swamp mud. He carries Geralt over to a grassy patch that’s slightly less damp that the surrounding swamp.

Geralt allows himself to be set down gently on the patch of grass, then gives Jaskier a moment to carefully set his swords aside before he grabs the witcher by the front of his jacket and tugs him close to kiss him again. He gets the buckles on Jaskier’s filthy jacket undone just as Jaskier unfastens Geralt’s trousers and tries to push them down over his hips; in their haste to undress each other, they get completely tangled up and tumble to the ground in a flurry of limbs.

As Jaskier hurriedly sheds his clothes, Geralt kicks his trousers off and almost rips his doublet in his haste to remove it. Once they’re both finally – finally! – naked, Geralt tugs Jaskier into his lap, running his hands greedily over all that exposed skin, skin he’s seen thousands of times when they share a room or a bath, but never been able to touch like this until now.

“Oh, mm, _yes,_ ” Jaskier whines. “Your _hands,_ Geralt, ugh, I’ve been obsessed with them for _years_. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I _love_ the songs you write, but I always make sure I attend your performances mainly so that I can stare at your hands and imagine you putting them all over me.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says, and in his distraction lets Jaskier push him flat onto his back and roll them over so that now Jaskier’s on his back with Geralt braced over him on hands and knees. He brushes a stray lock of Jaskier’s hair back with one hand and ducks his head to steal another kiss.

“Oh _gods,_ ” Jaskier says, when they can both breathe again, in tones of sincere wonder. “This is even better than my best fantasies, and I have a _very_ vivid imagination.”

Geralt sighs. “You really are the noisiest witcher I’ve ever met.” He bites back a whimper as Jaskier rolls his hips up against Geralt’s encouragingly.

“You love it,” Jaskier says, and presses a vial of oil into Geralt’s hands.

“I do not,” Geralt protests. He opens the vial and pours the contents over his fingers, then applies himself enthusiastically to the task at hand.

“Yes, you do. Oh gods _yes_ , right _there._ ” Jaskier looks immensely pleased with himself, dark eyes half-lidded, a little bit of color making it back into his alabaster-pale cheeks. “You love it when I talk, I’ve seen how you stare at my mouth.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt says, knowing when he’s been well and truly beaten. He tosses the empty vial aside so he can wrap his free hand around Jaskier’s cock.

“ _Ah!_ Ah – yes,” Jaskier says, somehow managing to be both breathless and smug at the same time. “I do believe that was the idea.” He suits deed to word, and Geralt finds that he has no complaints whatsoever about _that_.

***

Geralt opens his eyes just as dawn is breaking, the forest coming to life around him, full of the sounds of birds and insects and other assorted wildlife. He’s still naked, his clothes having fucked off to parts unknown after he’d gone a third round with Jaskier last night. He’s also still damp – Jaskier had been considerate enough to choose the driest possible patch of grass for their lovemaking, but even the very driest area in a swamp is still a little, well, swampy.

And speaking of Jaskier – Geralt turns his head to find that the witcher in question is awake and still curled up on his side next to Geralt, looking at him with eyes that have gone back to their usual brilliant gold hue. He looks like his pre-potion self again, his face regular witcher-pale and not deathly white.

“Hey, you,” Jaskier says, and kisses Geralt, who responds with enthusiasm – at least, he does until a tiny swamp lizard, probably disturbed by all their rolling around, pops out of the mud and runs across Geralt’s leg, almost startling him out of his skin. Jaskier looks at the lizard, then at Geralt’s affronted expression, and doubles over laughing.

“I really didn’t mean to maul you in the middle of a swamp, you know,” he says apologetically, petting a hand over Geralt’s bare hip. “I’d planned to bring you somewhere nice, court you properly, but you turned out to be too tempting to resist.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, both amused and touched. “Aren’t witchers used to sleeping in the woods?” he asks.

“That doesn’t mean we have to _like_ it,” Jaskier retorts. “I _do_ get rooms at inns sometimes when I have the coin, you know.” He grins and ducks in to kiss Geralt again. “You, on the other hand, my delicate little bard, should only ever be housed in the best room any inn has to offer, and should _never_ have to sleep in a swamp.”

Geralt snorts. “I’m not the one who complains about sleeping outdoors,” he points out. “So if either of us is the delicate one, I do believe it’s you.” He grins. “You probably would’ve done well as a bard, you know. You’d put me out of a job, with your sweet words and clever tongue.”

“Oh?” says Jaskier, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “You like my clever tongue, hmm? Let me show you what _else_ I can do with it.”

***

They finally make it to an inn four hours later. True to his word, Jaskier gets them the best room available, then buys Geralt a delicious lunch before bedding him again.

Sated, sweaty and pleasantly achy, Geralt rolls onto his side, facing Jaskier, and idly runs a finger over the witcher’s medallion, lying on the bed between them, as Jaskier watches him curiously.

“There are others?” Geralt asks. “Witchers, from your School?”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier says. “Not many of us left, though.” He smiles, toying with a lock of Geralt’s hair. “Would you like to meet them?”

Geralt shrugs. “Why not,” he says.

Jaskier beams. “When I head to Kaer Morhen this winter, perhaps,” he muses. “Vesemir always says I talk too much, gives him a headache. He’s going to _love_ you.”

Geralt snorts.

“See?” Jaskier says. “Man of few words. You’re _my_ bard, though. The others can’t have you.”

“Possessive, much?” Geralt says. The thought of being _Jaskier’s_ bard is, irritatingly, making him feel warm all over.

“Yes,” Jaskier says unapologetically, and cuddles up to him. Geralt wraps an arm around the witcher’s shoulders and tugs him closer.

“In the meantime, though,” Jaskier says, “I’ve been thinking of making my way to the coast.” He eyes Geralt, looking hopeful.

“That’s nice,” Geralt says. Jaskier wilts a little.

“When do we leave?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier immediately perks up. “You’ll come?” he asks.

“Well,” Geralt says. “There’s this epic ballad I need to write. About this particular witcher who keeps almost getting himself killed.”

“As declarations of love go,” Jaskier teases, raising an eyebrow, “I’ve heard more eloquent ones. But this one is definitely the most sincere.”

“Hm,” mutters Geralt, fighting back a blush.

Jaskier’s smile is blindingly bright. Geralt can’t help but bask in it, like a flower turning to the sun.

End.


End file.
